Short Walk
by The-Mighty-Floyd
Summary: Tim Drake is a Gotham City cop. He's engaged to FBI agent Sharon Clarke. He's also on the trail of a vicious serial killer. What fun. WARNING! Pretty much abandoned for now. May return some day. Probably not.
1. Prologue

Short Walk

Prologue: Life is but a Dream...

- - - - -

Tim groggilly shook his head as he sat up in bed. Sweat poured down his face and stained his bedsheets. The nightmare had seemed so real. Everything... his father's discovery of his secret life, his father's death, his snapping and becoming a serial killer, his murders of all his closest comrades...

He got out of bed, and stumbled into his bathroom. He ran water in the sink, cupped his hands under the faucet, and splashed himself in the face. He tried to rinse the dream from his eyes.

- - - - -

By breakfast, he had almost forgotten about the dream. When his father asked what he was going to be up to that day, he gave his usual lie.

- - - - -

They had just returned. They were startled to see Jack Drake coming at them, followed by a reluctant Alfred. He yelled at them.

He pulled a gun on Bruce.

- - - - -

Tim Drake was Robin...

No more.

- - - - -

From the Author: Incredibly short, I know, but it's just the tie-in from my story "Short Shift", no longer appearing here. I had enough complaints about how that one ended that I decided to "rewrite history" in a new story using the same original situation. To learn any more about that, you'll have to read "Short Walk" available on an as-written basis at or when finished as a whole at Yahoo!'s RobinFanFics.


	2. In the Beginning

Title: Short Walk

Rating: I'm going to go ahead and make this PG-13 now, so I don't have to go and change it later.

Disclaimer: All Batman-related characters belong to DC, the lucky dogs.

Explanation: I'm really an old friend of yours. I'm just writing under a new name now.

Esther-Channah: Astute of you... maybe. As I said, it was just to tie in the two stories, even though one is now gone from here. Hope you like this story better than that one.

- - - - -

Chapter 1: In the Beginning...

- - - - -

"A... a _JOB_?! _ME_?!"

Tim Drake fell back onto the couch, while his father glared at him.

"But... but why?!"

"Because I don't want you getting into any more trouble with that... that child-endangering _MANIAC_," Jack Drake replied.

"Bruce?! Aw, cummon, Dad! What the #! do you think I am?! I actually _KEEP_ my promises... unlike some people I could mention but aren't going to!"

"Me?! _ME_?! You're the one that snuck around behind my back all this time! You're lucky I didn't have that _NUT-JOB_ arrested! You're getting a job, and that's _FINAL_!" Jack stormed out of the room, and Tim just sat on the couch.

- - - - -

"So... where are you working?" Steph Brown asked Tim several weeks later. Like Tim, she was a vigilante in training, although her mother had adopted a don't ask, don't tell attitude about what her daughter chose to do. She was also his girlfriend.

"I've got a job at a construction yard, hauling timber," Tim replied.

"No way!" Steph exclaimed. "I have to work at some dinky little convenience store! I wish I could work construction!"

"Yeah," Time laughed. "You wish you could. Face it, Steph, they're not going to hire a, no offense, _girl_."

"Why, you..." Steph growled playfully, and punched him in the arm.

"Ow!" Tim laughed.

"Before we're both indentured," Steph said slyly, "why don't we go out for one last little crime-bust?"

"Steph..." Tim said warningly.

"Aw, cummon," she continued quickly. "Just one last harmless little ride before you hang up the tights forever."

"Well..." Tim said.

- - - - -

Tim knew he would probably regret not going out one last time, but intellectually, he also knew he had made the right choice.

Besides, this way, he had a chance of convincing his dad he could be trusted, and maybe talk him into letting Tim pick up the cape and cowl once more.

And Steph had understood his reasoning. That was the best part. Instead of going out to fight crime, they had engaged in an equally interesting pastime. For quite a while.

Fianlly, Steph had said goodnight, and left.

Tim waited up for his father.

- - - - -

When Jack Drake got home from his party that night, he found Tim stretched out on the couch. His mouth was slightly open, and a small string of saliva moved up and down in the corner as he gently snored, peaefully oblivious to the world.

Jack smiled. Tim was a good kid, when it came right down to it. Maybe he wasn't so untrustworthy after all.

- - - - -

TO BE CONTINUED...

- - - - -

From the Author: Well, what do you think of the new, different version so far?


	3. The Next Years

Title: Short Walk

Rating: I'm going to go ahead and make this PG-13 now, so I don't have to go and change it later.

Disclaimer: All Batman-related characters belong to DC, the lucky dogs.

Where are al my lovely reviewers? Okay, so I have one reviewer...

-

Chapter 2: The Next Years

-

The next several years seemed to pass in a blur. Without the secret of Robin between them anymore, Tim and Jack were able to grow closer to one another. Tim also started focusing on his schoolwork more, pulling A's out of B's and C's. His teachers were surprised and pleased at his improvements, and weren't afraid to say so, to him or his father.

Tim also kept up his part-time job in construction, building his muscles from well-developed to almost massive. By the time he graduated high school, he had gone up two shirt sizes. He also continued, with Jack's permission, to train in whatever martial art he could find. A quick study, he masters loved him, often devoting special time to him over their other, less enthusiastic trainees.

-

One day, a few days after his graduation, Tim sat down to talk with Jack.

"Hey, Dad, you know how I've got all that training in criminal justice and stuff from my old 'extracuricular activites?'"

"Yes," Jack replied, unsure of what this was leading to.

"Well," Tim said, "I'd like your permission to go into law enforcement."

Jack considered. His son was technically an adult now, who could make any decision he wanted. Yet he was still asking his father for permission to do this. He didn't know what to say. So he said, "Yes. You have my permission."

Tim enrolled in a good academy, and graduated near the top of his class. He got a job in the Gotham PD, an irony which was not lost on him or his father.

-

It had to happen eventually.

Two years after he had joined the GPD, Commisioner Harvey told Tim to come with him to the roof. Tim followed, knowing what was about to happen.

Sure enough, Commisioner Harvey activated the Bat Signal. The two waited for what seemed like forever, though it was only about ten minutes before Tim heard the telltale thump that announced the Batman's arrival. He pretended to be surprised when the familiar voice spoke behind him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Jon. Who's the kid?"

Commisioner Harvey sighed, and said, "Will you quit doing that! Anyway, the 'kid' is one of my best men. He's been tagged by the FBI, but we need to clear his slate first. I thought maybe you could help."

Tim finally turned, and saw the slight intake of breath as Richard Grayson, the Batman, saw his face for the first time in three years.

-

Dick had taken over the mantle of the Bat after a would-be assassin had shot the civilian Bruce Wayne twice in the chest. Wayne survived, but was confied to a wheelchair. Dick served as his legs, and after a year, was given full responsibility as the Batman, while Wayne finally retired from "the Life" and got around to marrying Selina Kyle, the former Catwoman.

Tim had missed the wedding, for obvious reasons.

-

The Commisioner went back down, telling Batman and Tim that they could "work out the specifics" by themselves.

An awkward silence fell between the two men.

"So..." Tim finally said. "How is everyone, Dick?"

"Fine. They're fine." Dick looked at the ground, then back at Tim.

"Bruce and Selina missed you at the wedding last year."

"Sorry. I was... busy on a case," Tim said.

Dick knew that was only part of the reason, but didn't press further.

They talked for a few minutes about what Tim needed help with, then said their goodbyes. Dick swung off into the night.

Tim stood on the roof for a few more minutes, quelling the feelings that had come over him for meeting the man he had once considered a brother for the first time in three years. Then he slowly made his way back downstairs.

-

"Drake, where ya been!"

"I was... upstairs, thinking. What's wrong?"

"We got the call a few minutes ago. Tim. It's your dad. He's in the hospital.

"He's had a heart attack."

-

TO BE CONTINUED...

-

From the Author: Oh, no! Will Jack survive this time? What about Batman? And what's this about the FBI? Stayed tuned for all your answers.


	4. The Funeral

Title: Short Walk

Rating: I'm going to go ahead and make this PG-13 now, so I don't have to go and change it later.

Disclaimer: All Batman-related characters belong to DC, the lucky dogs.

- - - - -

Chapter 3: The Funeral

- - - - -

LAST TIME...

- - - - -

"Drake, where ya been?!"

"I was... upstairs, thinking. What's wrong?"

"We got the call a few minutes ago. Tim. It's your dad. He's in the hospital.

"He's had a heart attack."

- - - - -

NOW...

- - - - -

Tim sat by the hospital bed, holding his father's limp hands between his own. A solitary tear traced a small path down one side of his face. His hand came up for a moment to brush it away, then returned to its former position.

The older Drake stirred.

"Tim..." he said weakly.

Tim leaned in to where his father could see him. "I'm right here," he said softly. "Don't worry."

"Have to... say... something..." Jack said. "Have to... tell... you something..."

"Relax, Dad. It's okay. You just need to rest, and you can tell me when you're better."

"No... Need to tell you... now... Not getting better... Listen... closely... Wrong... I was... wrong... You... needed... Mask... Need... mask... Most effective... Best choice... Proud of you, son... So proud..."

The monitor by the bed flatlined as Jack Drake breathed his last breath. Tim continued to hold his father's cooling hands for a long moment. Then, he stood, and walked outside the room. He beckoned to a passing nurse.

"It's over," he said.

- - - - -

It rained at the funeral. One of nature's little clichés, Tim thought to himself, as he held a black umbrella over his weeping stepmother.

He was almost overwhelmed with grief at the passing of his father, but he was happy, too. The older Drake had finally forgiven him completely for those years as Robin. And...

His last breath had been spent to tell Tim that he had been wrong. He had told his son to pick the mask back up.

He couldn't be Robin anymore. By all reports, that position was being filled by a blonde-haired girl close to his own age. He smiled inwardly as he pictured Steph Brown in the costume. Knowing her, she'd probably cut the midriff out.

No. He couldn't go back to being Robin. And he probably couldn't go back to the Bat-Clan, period. He had left them, and he knew from his short meeting with Dick that they wouldn't be overjoyed that he wanted to come back. He pictured Steph again. Most of them wouldn't be overjoyed, anyway.

Besides, the FBI had actually come to him. They specifically wanted him to work for them, to train their new recruits in unarmed combat and in police procedures. He was honored that they had singled him out of all the possible people they could have chosen.

"Ashes to ashes..." Tim turned his mind back to the events at hand. His father's coffin was slowly being lowered into the soaked earth. He picked up a rose, and tossed it down onto the coffin lid. On it's way down, a single petal dropped off, and floated to the ground at his feet. He stooped, and picked it up. It glistened with the drops of rain that had fallen on it.

He slowly folded his hand around the fragile petal, careful not to crush it.

He could teach at the FBI academy for the next five years. He had plenty of time. And he could use it all to prepare to resume the Life.

The only Life where he felt truly free.

He turned with his stepmother, and helped her back to the waiting limousine.

- - - - -

Dick Grayson turned away, and walked back to Alfred, who was standing by the car, holding an umbrella.

"One of nature's little clichés, Alfred," he said, unknowingly echoing the thought Tim had had earlier.

"What, sir?" Alfred inquired innocently.

Dick almost smiled. "It always rains at funerals."

He reached the car and the old butler. "Go ahead and get in the passenger seat. I'll drive."

"As you wish, sir," said Alfred, and reliquished the keys. Dick walked arounfd to the other side of the car, and climbed in.

"And do you know what Master Timothy is going to do now?" asked Alfred, as Dick started the car.

"He's going to Quantico to help train FBI recruits," Dick told him. "Jon told me the night Jack had his heart attack. He wanted me to help Tim tie up his loose ends before he left."

"And will you?" asked Alfred.

"Already taken care of," said Dick, and they rolled down the long driveway, and headed back to the Mansion.

- - - - -

TO BE CONTINUED...

- - - - -

From the Author: Am I doing better this time? The only way I'll know is if you tell me! Anyway, Next Time: Tim starts his new job, and boy, is it a doozy! Stay tuned!


	5. The FBI

Title: Short Walk

Rating: I'm going to go ahead and make this PG-13 now, so I don't have to go and change it later.

Disclaimer: All Batman-related characters belong to DC, the lucky dogs.

Explanation: Oops for me. I accidentally missed the last chapter, so I had to go back and put it up. Sorry to everyone who's already reviewed this chapter. In the interest of avoiding spoilers, I'll reply to reviews from both this chapter and the new chapter in the next chapter. Sorry, everyone.

* * *

Chapter 4: The FBI

* * *

Tim surveyed his new home. It was a small apartment, smaller than the one he had had back in Gotham (_Still have_, he corrected himself.), but it would do for his purposes. After all, it wasn't like he was going to use it for much more than sleeping.

* * *

It was his first day on the job, and frankly, he was feeling nervous. _Calm down_, he scolded himself. _It's just a job. It's not like what you teach here could mean the difference between life and death for your students_. He smiled at that one, then hastily readjusted his face to expressionless as the guard looked at him suspiciously. Inwardly, the smile widened into a full grin.

Finally, after what felt like forever, the guard handed back his pass and waved him through with a "Have a nice day, Instructor Drake." Tim smiled to himself again, and headed down the hall.

He was met after a few steps by his FBI liaison, Agent Sharon Clarke. She smiled at him, then started telling him his schedule for the first day.

"Hello, Officer Drake. I assume you've already reviewed your daily schedule," she said briskly, "but for this first day, all you're going to be doing is getting to know the students a little, and vice-versa. You'll also be meeting your fellow instructors. Any questions before I show you your room?"

Tim had already reviewed the floor plans, and knew exactly where his room was. He didn't mention this, though. Agent Clarke was pleasant company. "What kind of things do I get to know about them?" he asked.

She laughed. "Just basic stuff. Family, hobbies, other interests. Just kind of getting to be friends before they start to hate you for the misery you'll be putting them through for the next six weeks."

"That's another thing," said Tim. "How am I supposed to train them effectively in just six weeks? It took me years to learn what I know, and I'm not even close to being a master."

She laughed again. She had a pleasant laugh, he noticed. "Not according to your old teachers," she said. "They say you're probably the best they've ever seen, and they included themselves." She chuckled at the expression on his face, and continued. "As for training time, we don't expect them to be masters. We just expect them to be able to handle themselves in any normal situation they come up against. This is basically a self-defense course you're teaching here. Advanced self-defense, but still self-defense."

She paused for breath, then said, "Besides, after the first week, the time will just stretch on into eternity. Trust me, I know from experience." He shared her smile.

They reached a door. "This is where I leave you for now," she told him, still smiling. "I'll come by around eleven to see how you're doing." She offered her hand, and he took it. They shook hands, and then she walked back the way they had come, tossing a "See you later," over her shoulder.

Tim braced himself, and opened the door.

About fifteen men and women, ranging from 20 to 45 years of age, stood to attention when he entered. Then they saw him, and relaxed again, obviously mistaking him for another trainee. He smiled to himself, and decided to let the illusion last for a few moments, to see what they were really like. One young woman, about his own age, walked over to him and stuck out her hand. "Hi, how are ya?" she said with a faint nasal twang. He placed her in the northern Midwest. "I'm Betty." The other recruits also gathered around.

"I'm Jim," said a tall, good-looking black man, shaking his hand firmly. "I'm Melissa," said a nervous looking woman. "John. Nice to meet you," said another man. A middle-aged man said, "I'm Joe." "Rebecca," said a tall woman. The rest of the recruits introduced themselves to Tim, then looked at him expectantly. He grinned at them. "I'm Tim Drake. I'll be your instructor."

"You!" blurted Betty, then put both her hands over her mouth, blushing. He laughed.

"Yep. Me," he told her. The other recruits chuckled at the expression on her face, and she blushed a little harder.

"So..." said Tim. "I guess I'm supposed to get to know you all a little more. Who wants to go first?"

"I will," said Jim. The rest of the group lowered themselves onto the mat, leaving him standing in the middle. "Well," he said, "My name's Jim Cording, and I'm 32 years old. I'm married, and we have a four-year-old daughter, and a two-year-old son, both of whom enjoy tormenting their poor father." He mock-groaned, and the others laughed. "I was in the Marines for eight years, then got it into my head to join the FBI, and here I am." He sat down.

"Who's next?" asked Tim.

For the next half-hour, the other recruits told about themselves. They joked back and forth, and had a good time. Finally, Rebecca sat down, and motioned to Tim. "Okay, Teach," she said with a smile. "Your turn."

Tim groaned, but smiled as he stood up. "Alright, everyone. Pay attention. This'll be on the final exam," Joe cracked. The others laughed, then settled down.

"Well," said Tim. "There's not much to tell. I'm Tim Drake. I'm 22, and happily single." The others, half of who were married, groaned good-naturedly. "I'm a police officer for the Gotham PD in real life," he continued, "but the FBI has tagged me for a five year shift of torturing poor recruits such as yourselves." The other chuckled, and he grinned.

He checked his watch, and said, "Well, it's eleven o'clock, so Agent Clarke should be walking in about..." The door opened. "...Now," he concluded.

She looked at the circle of recruits on the floor, with Tim standing in the middle. "Okay, lunch time," she announced. "Time to experience the joys of FBI cafeteria food." The recruits moaned, but filed out of the room and in the direction of the cafeteria. Rebecca was the last to leave. She turned in the doorway, and said, "See you tomorrow, Old Man." Then she walked out. The door swung shut behind her.

"Well," said Agent Clarke. "How did your first day go?"

Tim pretended to wipe his brow. "Grueling," he joked. She laughed at him, with her quick, ready laugh.

"You think that was grueling, you should try the food we make them eat," she told him. "You're lucky you've come to us the way you have. You'll never have to eat it."

"Why not?" asked Tim.

"Because we," she said, grinning broadly, "get to order out. Come on. It's time for you to meet the 'guys'."

The "guys" turned out to be four other instructors, three men and one woman. A grey-haired man with a cane shook hands with Tim, before sitting back down at their table. "I'm Malcolm," he said. "I teach these kids to shoot. Have for twenty years. I'm danged good at my job, too."

A middle-aged woman said, "I'm Sammi. I make sure they know all they ever didn't want to about criminal law."

A second man, hair just going silver at the temples, said, "Fred. I teach another class for self-defense." He grinned easily at Tim. "It's good to have another unarmed guy in the building." Tim found himself grinning back.

The third man said, "I'm Hank," and went back to studying the thick book he had in front of him. Fred said, "Hank here is our resident computer genius. He's not rude, just absorbed in his work." "I know the type," said Tim. Agent Clarke introduced him to the others, and they sat down to their meal.

* * *

Tim returned to his apartment that night, exhausted. After lunch, he had been stuck in various introductory meetings all day, with only the sympathetic Agent Clarke to keep him sane. She had invited him to dinner, but he declined, telling her he probably wouldn't be able to keep himself from falling asleep. She laughed again, and made him promise to go to dinner with her soon before letting him go.

He collapsed onto his bed, and smiled to himself, before drifting off to sleep.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

From the Author: Wow. Quite possibly one of the longest chapters I've written. Anyway, Next Time: About six weeks later. The recruits have their final class, and Tim takes Agent Clarke up on her dinner invitation. Plus, a serial killer begins to terrorize Gotham City. Will the Bat-Clan ask for help? Stay tuned to find out! 


	6. Dinner at Clarke's

Title: Short Walk

Rating: I'm going to go ahead and make this PG-13 now, so I don't have to go and change it later.

Disclaimer: All Batman-related characters belong to DC, the lucky dogs.

-

Chapter 5: Dinner at Clarke's

-

_Six Weeks Later_...

-

They lined up in their accustomed order, big, strong Jim at one end, and small, nervous Melissa at the other. Five of the recruits had dropped out in the first week, but the rest remained, enduring Tim's rigorous training regimen in addition to everything else they had to do to become agents in the FBI.

He walked up and down the line, watching them. He had to admit, in the short time thay had had together, the twelve recruits had come a long way. He didn't feel that he had taught them nearly enough, but Agent Clarke had told him that was normal. Fred had confirmed this for him, so he supposed it must be true. Still...

"Go ahead and sit down," he told them. The twelve recruits lowered themselves to the mat on the floor, where they sat cross-legged, waiting.

He reviewed his short speech in his mind one last time, making sure he knew exactly what he wanted to say.

"You've all come a long way. If we'd had more time, you would have gone farther. As it is, I'm very happy with what you've all accomplished.

"This is your last class with me. From here, you move on to the next part of your training. I won't say I'm not sorry to see you go, because I am. Oh, boy, am I sorry to see you all go.

"But, there's nothing left for me to teach you. So, I formally declare to the twelve of you that you have officially passed my class in unarmed close combat.

"Class dismissed."

The twelve cheered, then got up and gathered around to shake his hand.

"We'll miss you, Old Man," one said. "Don't be a stranger," another told him.

They turned to congratulating each other, and Jim pulled Tim over to the side, out of the main group, but not far enough to attract notice. "Good luck, Old Man," he grinned. "If you ever need any help with anything, here's my number. Feel free to drop by every so often. My wife is looking forward to meeting you."

Tim smiled back. "How could I say no to your wife?" he joked. Jim pulled him into a quick bear hug, then released him and turned back to the other celebrating recruits.

The small group made it's way out of the room, and the door swung closed behind them.

Tim shook his head, still smiling, and began to straighten up the room for the next occupants. He stacked the floor mats neatly, and made sure the lights were all turned off. He walked out into the hall, and closed and locked the door. Turning, he saw Agent Clarke standing behind him, smiling.

"Well," she said. "You've got a week till the next group. Want to come by for dinner tomorrow? You promised you would sometime."

He smiled back. "I'd love to," he said.

-

The next evening, Tim was frantically searching for a tie, when he heard a knock at the door. "Just a minute," he called, finally locating a long strip of cloth that matched his casual suit.

Tying it quickly, he walked over to the door and opened it.

"Hi, Tim."

"Steph. What are you doing here?"

Steph Brown, the former Spoiler and current Robin, looked uncomfortable. "Dick asked me to drop by. He has a little problem that he says he needs help on. Your help."

"Sorry," said Tim. "But I don't do that stuff anymore, remember? Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date tonight."

Steph's eyes widened slightly, but she nodded, and turned and walked away.

Tim felt bad, but what else was he supposed to do? He wasn't ready yet. He still needed time to get his new persona in place, and finish up his time at the FBI without attracting attention.

-

When he got to the address Agent Clarke had given him, he had to double-check the small piece of paper to make sure he was in the right place. He let out a long, slow whistle. They mut be paying her a lot more than they were paying him, he thought as he got out of his car.

The neighborhood was very upscale. Trees provided shade for the brick sidewalks, as walls stretched up the other side.

Agent Clarke's house was huge. A single light shone over top of the door.

He entered the yard, and walked up a small path to the door. He considered a moment, then rang the bell. Chimes echoed through the huge house.

The door slid open.

Agent Clarke was wearing a comfortable-looking dress, simple and black with just a hint of sparkle.

She smiled when she saw Tim. "Hey, how are you?" she asked.

"Fine," he answered.

-

Dinner was enjoyable. She had made it herself. She was an excellent cook.

-

After dinner, they relaxed in front of a fire. "So, Agent Clarke-" he began, but she held up a finger. "Please, call me Sharon," she said.

He smiled, and started again. "Alright, Sharon. Not to be rude, but... how did you end up with all this?"

She laughed, and said, "My parents were wealthy businesspeople. When they died in a plane crash, all their money and this place came to me."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be," she replied. "We weren't exacatly a loving family. But let's not get depressed. Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you," he said. "I need to head home. I've still got a lot a work to catch up on. But this was fun, if you'd want to do it again?"

She smiled up at him. "Count on it, Old Man," she said, using his nickname from the training center.

Their kiss goodnight was long, warm, and soft, and he felt extremely light headed as he walked back down to where his car was parked. She watched him until he was out of sight, then turned, and walked back into the large, empty house. The door slid shut behind her.

-

Gotham.

Night.

A shadow slides through the mist by the harbor.

An old drunk is sitting, watching two young women as they walk and joke along the water's edge.

The figure appears out of the mist, and appears to ask them something.

They answer. The figure shakes its head.

Its arms move. There is a flash. A glint of steel.

A red cloud sprays from the throat of one of the young women.

The other opens her mouth to scream.

Too late.

Another flash.

Another spray of red.

The two crumple to the ground.

Blood stains the pavement around them.

They die.

The figure disappears.

The old drunk is left alone.

-

TO BE CONTINUED...

-

From the Author: Next Time: Tim's time with the FBI is up. He returns to Gotham, where he is put in charge of finding a killer who has taken thirty-two young women in the last five years. Will he be able to stop the killer? And what has happened between him and Agent Sharon Clarke? Stay tuned to find out!


	7. Return to Gotham

Title: **Short Walk**

Rating: I'm going to go ahead and make this PG-13 now, so I don't have to go and change it later.

Disclaimer: All Batman-related characters belong to DC, the lucky dogs.

Okay, kiddies, it's finally review reply time! Raist: If you want, I could do a ministory with the intervening time. Let me know. Esther-Channah: Always a pleasure to hear from you. I'm doing my best, but stay tuned for an announcement at the end of this chapter. CM: Here you are! Silverwolf: It's a cryin' shame, too, isn't it? Tim will have an official capacity in at least the majority of this story, but I'm not promising he won't slip back into some tights at some point.

Stay tuned for an important announcement at the end of the chapter!

Warning: This chapter is at least mildly graphic. You might not want to read if you have certain... tendencies.

* * *

Chapter 6: Return to Gotham

* * *

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm actually going to miss this place."

"I know what you mean. It grows on you."

"Like a fungus."

The three men laughed. Tim Drake thoughtfully ran his hand down the length of his beard. It was fun, and useful in distracting his opponents. He wasn't averse to the pre-mature silver than ran through it, and along his temples, either. Sharon told him it was sexy.

"Well," said Fred, "see you around, Old Man."

"Don't be a stranger," Hank said.

"Are you kidding? There's no way I'm coming back here. You guys have to visit us!"

The three laughed again, then shook hands all around.

As Tim made his way to the exit, Sammi ran up to him. "Hey!" she called. "Don't forget Clarke's book!" She held up the thin paperback, then tossed it to him. He caught it easily, and grinned at her. "Take care, Sammi."

"Take care of yourself," she retorted. "You're gonna need to more than me."

She gave him a quick hug, then headed back down the hall.

Tim chuckled to himself, then walked over to the guard. He took off his badge, and handed it to the man. Then, he pushed open the door and walked out into the lobby, where Sharon Clarke, his fiance, waited for him with his coat over one of her arms, her own coat already on.

"Took you long enough," she teased as she handed him the thick, warm coat he had gotten at Christmas the year before. He didn't say a word, just grabbed her and kissed her full on the mouth. When they broke apart, both were laughing.

"Come on," he told her, pulling her against him with an arm, "It's time for us to go to Gotham."

* * *

"Glad you're back, Drake. Files're on your desk. Get to work."

"Glad to see you don't waste any time, Commish," Tim told the older man's back as he turned and walked back along the narrow corridor running through the partitioned offices of the Gotham City PD. "I heard that," was the reply, and the cops within earshot grinned.

Tim was no exception. The FBI was nice, but there really was no place like home.

He and Sharon had arrived the night before, and moved right into their new apartment. It was spacier than his old one, that was for sure. He'd been surprised to see how much Gotham had grown in the last five years, and mentally made a note to himself to memorize its new layout.

Tim moved along the corridor to his "office", where his desk was, indeed, thick with files. After sorting through those that were supposed to be there, and throwing away those left as a "Welcome Back" joke, he got to work, carefully reading through each one.

As he read, he noticed a pattern developing. The murders concerned had all taken place along the harbor. Three had been in the south, twelve in the center, and seventeen in the north. In each case, the victim was a young woman, and each had had her throat slashed out by what was thought to be a serrated knife. There were pictures.

Tim leaned back in his chair as he looked at the crime scene photos. They were all so young. They should have had their whole lives ahead of them. Instead, they were covered by dried pools of their own blood.

_What kind of monster could do something like this?_ he asked himself. _How was this even conceivable?_ He read through the standard psychological profile of the killer, but it was completely based on guesswork. There was no evidence anywhere in the files to back any of it up. They were dealing with something totally unknown.

"Drake, the commish wants you in his office," a passing detective said over his wall. Tim sighed, stood up, and stretched. He closed the last file, and walked out and along the corridor to the large glass room used by the commisioner as an office. He knocked, and the older man looked up from a thick pile of paper and beckoned him inside.

Tim entered the room, and stood looking around as the commisioner finished reading... whatever it was. On the desk was a computer, apparently unused, judging by the amount of papers covering it, and a typewriter, which clearly _was_ regularly used. There was also a picture frame facing the commisioner's chair, which Tim assumed was of the man's family.

The commisioner finished what he was reading, and looked up again. "Sit down," he ordered. Tim complied. "What do you think?"

Tim didn't have to ask about what. "I think that I would need to talk to hoever was involved, witnesses, first on the scene investigators, that sort of thing," he replied.

"Good," the commisioner said. "You're in charge. I'm giving you three men. That's all I can spare. Keep me posted."

He picked up another paper, and Tim stood and left.

* * *

A young woman runs through the night. Her friends had warned her, but she had laughed them off. There had been no killings in three months, she had told them. Whoever it was was probably gone by now.

The figure chasing her belies the argument.

It catches her.

She screams, shrilly.

A flash of silver.

A crimson spray.

Her jugular has been ripped apart.

She tries to scream again.

There is no sound.

Tears roll down her cheeks.

She collapses, limp, to the ground.

She struggles to breathe.

No air can enter her lungs.

Her mind is thick.

It is hard to think.

It is hard to focus her eyes.

Why can't she scream?

Blackness.

A body named Alice lies on the cold, uncaring ground, surrounding by an expanding pool of blood still steaming from its veins.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED...

* * *

From the Author: Next Time: Tim is on the trail of the killer, and meets up with an old friend. Will their meeting go well? Will they be able to find the murderer before they strike again? Stay tuned to find out!

Additional note: I have never known someone who was murdered. I have known people who died unnaturally. I apologize if my description upsets you. The "published" version is much less graphic than my original version, but I didn't want to tone it down all the way. If that seems cruel, well, maybe it is. But I feel that it is necessary.

**Important announcement:** Due to circumstances beyond my control (ie: schoolwork and lack of ideas to reach planned climax), "Short Walk" will not update again for about a month. I will be continuing my other two multi-chapter stories, "Amy, Perfect Woman" and "Die Laughing", during this time, as well as any other stories of any length I can think of. Don't worry: "Short Walk" will resume posting on Sunday, March 27, 2005. Until then,

_Excelsior!_

The Mighty Floyd


	8. An Old Friend

Title: Short Walk

Rating: We're definitely into PG-13 by now.

Disclaimer: All Batman-related characters belong to DC, the lucky dogs.

J. Todd: Sorry, yo! I forgot about this story! I've been busy with school stuff for the last month and a half, and I've been working on some other projects that kind of shoved this out of my mind. But, here you are!

General Apology: I realize I said I would resume on March 27. I also realize this is April 5. Things have been hectic, but I'll try to do better. And check my profile for some more fun and exciting stories!

Chapter 7: An Old Friend

A silky whisper.

A brief flash of movement.

A light footfall.

Tim grinned. "You're good," he told a shadow against the wall. "Better than I remembered."

The shadow emerged, revealing Batgirl. "Hello, Tim," she said. "We need your help."

"Don't you people understand the concept of 'retired'?" groaned Tim.

"Please," said Batgirl.

Tim sighed.

"What do you need?" he asked.

"Someone is killing girls," she told him. "It is your case. We need information."

"I seem to remember we just took the information back when I was around," Tim told her, a sardonic grin on his face.

"Things have... changed," she said. "More security. Less risk-taking. It's not like when you..."

"When I was Robin," finished Tim. "I was sorry to hear about Steph."

"Yet you didn't come to her funeral," Batgirl accused.

Tim sighed. "I couldn't. It would have been... difficult to explain."

"To Sharon Clarke," observed Batgirl.

"Yes," admitted Tim.

"Why did you not at least write or call?" asked Batgirl.

"I'm engaged to an FBI Agent," Tim half-laughed. "You can't keep that sort of thing a secret."

"But you have kept your past identity a secret," Batgirl pointed out.

Tim sighed again.

"I don't need this argument right now," he told her. "I'll get you copies of the files, but I'm guessing there's not much there you don't already know."

He turned to continue his walk down the empty street. Batgirl called after him, "You didn't ask about the others."

He paused. "What makes you think I care?" He felt more than heard her leave. His heart was heavy in his chest.

As he continued walking, he reflected. He hated acting so aloof, so cold, but he had to. For their own sakes he had to drive the others away. What he was planning to do must be kept to himself. Not the Bats, not Sharon. Just himself.

A shadow stands on the roof.

Gargoyles loom, huge and cold, around it.

It breathes.

It is a man. Tall, strong, standing straight.

He takes a deep breath, and goes over his mental checklist again. _Grapnels. Staff. Gas. Flash bangs. Shuriken. Here goes nothing._

He spreads his arms like wings, and steps off the edge of the building.

For a brief moment, he flies.

He hasn't felt this free in years.

Then, at the last possible second, a small cord shoots out from the plummeting figure. Attached to the end is a small, sturdy hook. As he grasps the other end tightly, the hook seeks and finds purchase on a ledge.

His path arcs, and he is flung upward, into the sky. An amazing, floating sensation surrounds his entire body.

_If God meant man to fly, He might have given us wings, but this probably comes close._

He soars for another moment, then lands lightly on the ledge. With a sharp jerk of his wrist, the grapnel is free and retracting, even as he eyes his next target.

Tim walked through his apartment door. He'd left his new costume in a safe house unknown to Sharon or anyone else. It was interesting keeping secrets from his fiancee sometimes, but he could still do it.

She was curled up in a huge overstuffed easy chair, reading, as he walked out of the short hallway and into the living room. Her reading glasses were perched on her nose, her hair pulled up in a ponytail on the back of her head.

He stood for a moment, just watching her, until she looked up and smiled.

"How are you so quiet?" she laughed. He chuckled, and crossed the short space to kiss her. "Trade secret," he replied. She leaned into him, nuzzling his throat for a moment, then pulled back.

"What's for dinner?" he asked. She laughed at him. "Always keeping your priorities straight, I see. Sex and stomach."

"I can go without the sex if you can," he told her with a straight face. She grabbed a cushion from the nearby sofa and tossed it at him. He caught it, laughing. She looked chagrined for a moment, but then joined him.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you, too," she replied. "We're having pizza."

"Hurrah!" cheered Tim.

Later that night, curled up in bed, Tim watched Sharon's sleeping form beside him. His heart wrenched at her beauty. He hated not being able to tell her everything, but he had people to protect. He couldn't reveal his own identity without risking theirs.

_That never stopped Bruce_, a treacherous little voice whispered. He grimaced. _I'm not Bruce_, he replied.

Sharon stirred beside him, bringing her back to the focus of his attention. He smiled gently, and pulled her closer to him, and drifted gently off to sleep.

From the Author: I bet you were all expecting Dick, weren't you? Admit it! Anyway, Next Time: Tim continues to work the case, while feeding information to the Bat-clan. But with Sharon getting suspicious, a bit of turbulence enters the sea of their romance. And with the killer picking up the pace, everyone must work fast to keep them from striking again! Stay tuned!

The Mighty Floyd


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